


Every morning, buttered and jammed

by lowriseflare, threeguesses



Category: Pitch (TV 2016)
Genre: Babyfic, Chaptered, Eventual Smut, F/M, Ginny just wants to play baseball, MIKE LAWSON HUMAN DISASTER
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-18
Updated: 2017-01-12
Packaged: 2018-09-09 15:45:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8897830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lowriseflare/pseuds/lowriseflare, https://archiveofourown.org/users/threeguesses/pseuds/threeguesses
Summary: When Ginny pulls him aside after their second road game against the Mets, Mike thinks she wants to go over hitters.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> lowriseflare wanted babyfic, and I absolutely refused to write futurefic because I'm a scrooge who hates joy, and thus we settled on 'Ginny gets knocked up after a post- _Scratched_ one night stand', which turns out to be a surprisingly melancholy concept? ANYWAY, eventually this'll earn its E rating and happy ending, never fear. 
> 
> Title is Bob Hicok, _You name this one_.

When Ginny pulls him aside after their second road game against the Mets, Mike thinks she wants to go over hitters. She's starting tomorrow and they're two games back from a Wild Card spot, mid-September and an Indian summer in New York. They’ve been on a run like nothing Mike’s ever seen since the trade with Chicago fell through, win after win after win. Last week Blip nailed a Chicago hat to Mike’s locker, the C scribbled over with permanent marker. “For luck,” he said.

“Can we talk?” Ginny asks, stopping beside Mike's chair with her bag slung over her shoulder.

“Sure." Mike pats the seat next to him, gearing up to give her a speech about Madison Bumgarner and what it takes to pitch under pressure. He gave it to Miller at the end of last season and now seems as good a time as any to give it to Ginny, the Mets and the Giants and the Cardinals all still alive and kicking. The postseason is so close he can taste it.

But Ginny shakes her head. “Back at the hotel?”

Well. It’ll be past midnight when they get back to the hotel, and for an insane second Mike wonders if she wants to have sex again. They slept together exactly once, the night before the trade deadline, then agreed never to mention it again. Or at least, Ginny had agreed: “We can't,” she said the next morning, sitting at his kitchen counter with two hands curled around a coffee mug. And even though Mike could still taste her—could still _hear_ her gasps echoing in his ears—he nodded. “Of course,” he said, and that was that.

“Sure,” he says now, getting carefully to his feet. “Just let me grab my stuff.”

He skips his ice bath to ride the team bus back with her, his knees stiff and aching. Less than five minutes into the ride he knows this isn’t about sex: Ginny’s a ball of unhappy nerves, bouncing her leg and smacking her gum, the volume on her headphones jacked so loud he can hear the beat drop from two feet away. By the time they pull into the hotel, Mike’s as big a wreck as she is.

“You okay?” he asks quietly as they exit the bus. Ginny grimaces at him, yanking her ballcap down over her eyes without answering.

He’s worried the guys will notice them getting off the elevator together, but Blip’s leaning against the wall texting Evelyn and Stubbs and Margolis are deeply engrossed in an argument about Lady Gaga lyrics. Not for the first time, Mike wonders if maybe they could have gotten away with it after all.

“Okay,” he says once they're safely inside his hotel room. “Enough with the cone of silence routine, Baker, what is—”

“I’m pregnant,” she announces.

Mike whips around to stare at her. God forgive him, but his first thought is to wonder what this means for his chance at a ring. “Uh,” he says finally, a million different questions knocking one another over in his head like a domino rally. “I don’t—”

“It's yours.”

He laughs then, one unhinged-sounding bark that isn't anything like his normal laugh. Ginny wrinkles her nose in disgust.

“Say something,” she hisses, crossing her arms. She's got her jaw set like two outs and bases loaded, teeth sunk into her bottom lip deep enough to bruise.

“Okay,” Mike says, more to himself than anything. He feels like he's been hit in the head with a line drive. He reaches out and cups her shoulders, his hands shaking. “Okay, hey Baker, listen, it’s okay. What do you want to do?”

Ginny shrugs violently. “I don't _know_ ,” she says, and she sounds so, so young.

Mike swallows. “Well you kind of have to decide, rook.” He can feel her collarbones under his palms. She seems delicate suddenly, smaller, like something he wants to fold up in his arms and protect. He's never even had so much as a scare with a girl before. “Okay. Um, let's start with this. How sure are you?”

Ginny shrugs again, avoiding his eyes. “Three tests.”

“Got it.” Mike takes a deep breath. So much for the condom. “Well, whatever you want to do is—”

“I don’t wanna abort,” she blurts out, finally looking at him. “I always thought I would, but I don’t, okay?”

Mike swallows hard, an unexpected wave of relief nearly taking him out at the knees. “Okay,” he says. He leans down and kisses her before he knows he’s going to do it, his brain glitching out and her mouth suddenly right there, soft and wide and bumping gracelessly against his. She tastes like stale gum. “Okay,” he repeats, pulling away and ignoring her wide-eyed stare. “We can do the other thing then.”

“What, the other thing like  _keep_ it?” Ginny asks, squinting up at him like she's trying not to cry.

“Yeah,” Mike says. His voice sounds weirdly bright and chirpy even to his own ears. He feels a little like he's about to throw up. “We can do that.”

“But I don't—” Ginny breaks off. “What about—”

“We’ll figure it out,” Mike promises in a rush, squeezing her shoulders. “Whatever it is, we’ll just—we’ll figure it out.”

Ginny inhales sharply. “Okay,” she says. It's the same voice she uses when he gives her a pep talk out on the pitch. For one brilliant second, Mike hates himself more than he ever has in his entire life. The first woman in the MLB, and here he is, here's what he's done. Here's what they both did. 

“Okay,” he echoes. He has no fucking idea what happens next.

They’re still frozen two feet inside the door like some fucked-up tableau, his hands on her shoulders and both of them still in their caps and jackets, bags slung over their backs. Mike lets go of her to set his down, forcing himself to take a breath.

Ginny breathes in with him. “Shit,” she says, yanking off her cap and scrubbing both hands through her hair. “This is such a mess, I’m sorry.”

“Pretty sure I was there too,” Mike tells her, then swallows roughly as he remembers just how there he was. He can't believe he actually got her—and with a _condom_ on, too. With a deep, disgusted lurch, he realizes the idea is actually turning him on.

“I'm sorry anyway.” She's avoiding his eyes again, her gazed fixed firmly on the hotel carpet. “Did you want kids?” she asks, pulling at her bottom lip.

Mike nods. He's always wanted them. He thinks there's probably something fucked up about how deep the desire goes, like Frankenstein's monster trying to build the family he never had. “You?”

Ginny shrugs. “I dunno. Maybe someday.”

Mike looks at her for a minute. “Baker, listen. Do you _want_ to keep it? Because—”

“No, I want to,” she says right away, her eyes flying to his face. “I want to.”

Mike inhales steadily. “Okay.”

“I just—can we take the other thing off the table?” Ginny asks. “You don't have to help raise it or anything, I just—”

“I want to raise it,” Mike says, too fast. His head is spinning. “Baker. I’ll change every single diaper, I’ll do bottle feedings, whatever you want.” Fuck, he’s actually picturing it now, a real live baby, a kid with curls that calls him daddy and pulls up on the furniture. He’s going to need to switch out one of his cars for an SUV.

Ginny sags in on herself like a balloon deflating. “All right,” she says, looking relieved. “Good.”

“Good,” Mike echoes. The clock on the bedside table reads quarter to one. He swears softly. “Baker, we gotta sleep now, okay? It's late.”

“Shit.” Ginny rubs a hand over her face. “Okay, yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Stop apologizing,” Mike begs. Then, before he can think better of it, “Wanna stay here tonight? Just to sleep, I mean,” he adds hastily when he sees the look on her face. “I can order room service.”

Ginny stares at him for a moment, her expression inscrutable. “Yeah,” she says finally. “Okay. I mean, I guess you did knock me up already.” And then they’re both laughing only Ginny’s turns into a ragged sob halfway through, her whole face crumpling. Mike feels like someone is holding his heart against a hot stove.

“Hey,” he says quietly, holding out his arms. “Baker. Come here.”

Ginny shakes her head. “I’m fine,” she promises, but she lets him hold her for a minute anyway, all shoulders and bony elbows, sniffling once against his shirtfront before taking a deep breath. Just for a second, Mike presses his face into her hair.

“There you go,” he says as she straightens up, jamming his hands in his pockets. “See? We’re okay.”    

He orders them both burgers and flips through hotel cable until he finds a sitcom, something noisy and bright and familiar like he used to back when he was a kid putting himself to bed on the living room couch. “This work for you?” he asks, glancing over at where Ginny’s propped up on the pillow picking at her French fries. She’s left enough room for the Holy Ghost.

“Yeah,” she says, tucking her feet under the covers. “This works.”

Mike falls asleep more or less immediately after he finishes his burger, ingrained instinct after over a decade and a half of road games. He doesn’t wake up again until the very early hours of the morning, his head a mess of sleep and a warm body on the bed next to him. _Rachel_ , he thinks, reaching, and then all at once he remembers. He wonders what she’ll think about all this. They talked about having kids constantly when they were married, both of them only children growing up and hell-bent on giving their kids siblings. They wanted at least three.

The tv’s still on, an infomercial flickering across the screen. Mike finds the remote and clicks it off, plunging the room into darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the morning he and Ginny are both zombie-tired, stumbling around his hotel room like the only two surviving victims of some natural disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I said to lowriseflare the other night, I can't believe we have two long-fics on the go with no kissing in them. WHO ARE WE.

In the morning he and Ginny are both zombie-tired, stumbling around his hotel room like the only two surviving victims of some natural disaster. Ginny borrows his toothbrush and stares unseeingly at the local morning news as she brushes, her face as blank and closed off. Mike checks that the coast is clear twice before sending her out the door.

The rest of the day is bizarrely uneventful. They beat the Mets 3 to 1 and Ginny pitches a fine game, steady enough that Mike barely has to come off the plate. He spends all six of her innings terrified she’ll get hit with a line drive anyhow. Everything feels different, even the ball in his glove. A _baby_. Mike wants to tell everyone, the ump and the third base coach and Neil Walker as Ginny sneaks a change-up by him. He wants to tell nobody at all. It feels like a chasm has opened up in his heart, straight drop, no bottom. Catching for Evers is a relief.

Back home in San Diego, Ginny has her GP confirm what they already know: three weeks pregnant.

“You want a paternity test?” she asks Mike afterwards, curled up on her ugly couch at the Omni with a glass of flat ginger ale. He shakes his head.

She starts on prenatal vitamins. A week goes by. Then another. Mike starts calling her every night again, although now they mostly talk about Ginny’s newly-developed morning sickness and how to cover it up in the clubhouse. The Padres clinch the Wild Card spot and he’s too nervous to enjoy it, sure that Blip or Al or the team doctor will sniff them out. He starts bringing little packets of oyster crackers to all their games. Ginny crunches through them one at a time in the dugout to ward off nausea, her face sweaty and young under her ballcap.

They beat the Mets to take the Wild Card. Then they beat the Nationals to win the Division Series and Mike can’t believe this is happening, the Padres first serious playoff run in over six years, the first woman in the MLB, the first girl he’s ever gotten pregnant. The days all blur into one another, hazy and surreal. Ginny drops ten pounds and Mike starts visiting the mound so much during her starts that Al asks if she's injured. Mike doesn't know what to say.

They don’t sleep in the same room again. Mike tries not to think about how much he wants to.

The second game of the NLCS, Ginny pukes three times in under an hour and Mike makes her go to the emergency room, reduced to pacing around his hotel room until she comes back. “I’m _fine_ ,” she hisses when he wrenches the door open to her discreet knock. “They said it’s _normal_.”

“Well, how the hell would I know that?” Mike says, but he lets her inside anyhow. She drinks the six dollar bottle of water in his mini bar and throws up in his bathroom.

All told, it almost a relief when the Cubs knock them out in game five. Mike gives a speech about building for the future that feels a little on the nose for a man about to become a father, then collapses into a chair next to Ginny and takes his first full breath in weeks.

“Fuck,” he says, and Ginny smiles.

“Fuck,” she agrees, kicking lightly at his ankle. Mike feels it all the way up his spine.

He catches her arm after the presser, letting go in a hurry when Blip glances over. “Hey,” he says, lowering his voice. “Do you—” He stops. He had planned to ask her if she wants to come over and order takeout, but the idea feels abruptly ridiculous. He has no clue how this is going to go now that they aren’t seeing each other every day. “Need anything?” he finishes lamely.

Ginny looks at him for a moment, unreadable. Then she shakes her head. “Nah,” she says. “I’m good.”

 

That night he’s home drinking a beer and watching SportsCenter, scrolling idly through The Bump on his phone, when Ginny texts him. _told Amelia today_ , she says, plus the grimacing emoji. Then, before Mike can answer: _not about you or anything. Just about me._

Huh. There’s no reason for that second part to bug him, Mike guesses—theoretically it’s her news to share however she wants—but it does anyway. _you could have told her about me_ , he keys in, then deletes it. _How’d it go?_ he asks instead. He’s waiting for her reply when the doorbell rings.  

For a second Mike thinks it's Ginny herself, come to chat about it in person, but when he looks at the security system he sees it’s _Amelia_. His stomach goes cold. 

“What the hell is wrong with you?” she spits when he opens the door. She looks just about the angriest Mike’s ever seen her, two blotches of color high on her cheeks. Her car is parked sloppily in his driveway, the driver's side door still ajar. Mike wonders how many speed limits she broke getting over here.

He thinks about playing dumb for Ginny’s sake, he does, but lying to Amelia about this feels disrespectful. He pictures her blonde hair spread across his pillow. He pictures her in her pink dress at the Nike event, frowning and telling him  _Your head was never in this_. “It's not like we planned it,” he starts, and Amelia slaps him full across the face.

“What the _fuck_ ,” Mike says, clutching at his jaw, but Amelia isn't listening.

"She just made it to the majors, Lawson, how the fuck could you do that to her?” She shoves past him into the house, her heels clacking angrily on the concrete floor. “And you want to fucking _keep_ it? Are you two serious?”

“Ginny wants to,” Mike corrects, then immediately feels like a giant fucking coward.

“Well fuck, Mike, get her to change her mind then,” Amelia says, throwing up her hands. Mike has never heard her say fuck outside the bedroom before. Usually she picks more refined swears. “She’ll be pregnant during spring training, you know that? You think that part through?”

Mike knows, but only because he did the math. He and Ginny haven't talked about it. He and Ginny haven't talked about anything besides her weight and how nauseous she is on a scale of one to ten. He feels, abruptly and completely, like a real piece of shit. “Amelia,” he says.

 Amelia holds her hand up. “Don't,” she says, sounding closer to the edge than he's ever, ever heard her. “Do _not_.” She takes a breath and just like that she's herself again, clipped and efficient. “They're going to send her back down, you get that, right? You've ended her career.”

Mike lets out a breath. Scrubs a hand through his beard. He wants to tell her it's already settled; he wants to tell her it's out of his hands. “I’ll take care of it,” is what he says in the end, which sounds like something different than what he means.

Amelia eyes him evenly. “Good.”

After she’s gone Mike stands in the kitchen for a long time, heart racing, hands planted flat on the granite countertop to keep them from shaking. Finally he picks up his phone. _it went fine_ , Ginny texted twenty minutes ago, which is clearly about as true as _you can’t get pregnant using a condom_. Mike scoops his car keys off the hook.

She can't live in the Omni with a baby, he thinks as he's driving over there. She can't live in the Omni at all if she's not playing for the—

“You need a house,” he says, when she opens the door. Ginny blinks at him.

“Hi to you too,” she says, stepping back and letting him inside. She’s wearing her pajamas, soft-looking blue sweats and a tee. Her belly is still completely flat.

“Baker,” Mike starts, and God, they barely even know each other. It’s been less than five months. “We gotta talk about this.”

Ginny nods. “Yeah,” she says. “We do.”

 

They talk about it. They talk about it for over two hours, about how it’s going to work and who they’re going to tell when, about how to best protect Ginny’s career. “You still sell out crowds every time you start,” Mike says. “We have to believe that matters.”

“Yeah, but will I sell out after this?” Ginny asks, gesturing at her stomach. 

Mike doesn’t want to say it. “I think you sell out at twice the rate if we announce it’s mine.” 

Ginny shakes her head. “Let’s talk about something else,” she says, so they do. 

They talk about getting Amelia to work on a media strategy. They talk about whether they’ll be disciplined by the MLB Commissioner if the story comes out. They talk about Ginny’s due date and whether they want to know the baby’s sex beforehand (they do), then about whether or not they want a scheduled cesarean (they don’t; Ginny read about longer recovery times). They talk about making a plan for her recovery with a trainer they trust. They talk about non-disclosure agreements. They talk about everything under the sun except for their relationship, and when Mike finally brings it up Ginny looks at him like he’s sprouted horns.

“I mean, we’re friends, right?” she says, looking down and picking at a thread on her sweatpants. “We’re still going to be friends?”

“I—” Mike breaks off, telling himself he's got absolutely no fucking reason to feel disappointed about that. He guesses he was just picturing—well. He doesn’t know what he was picturing. “Yeah, Baker,” he says finally, clearing his throat to get the words out. “Of course we’ll be friends.”

Ginny nods and looks at him for a moment, that same wide-eyed expression from the night at Boardner’s Bar. For a moment it occurs to him that this might have been a test. “Ginny,” he starts, then completely fails to follow it up in any meaningful way. 

“What?” She makes a face, her shoulders coming up like a prize fighter’s. “You wanna fist bump on it or something?”

Mike sighs. “Let’s shake,” he says, holding out his hand. Ginny takes it, her grip dry and strong. For exactly one second and not a moment longer, Mike thinks about a ring. 

He takes off not too long after that, hugging her quickly and driving himself back to his glass house in La Jolla. He doesn't fall asleep for a long time. 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ginny finds a house, a freshly flipped bungalow not too far from Mike’s with a big, light-filled living room and an avocado tree in the backyard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELLO ALL, it's us again, authors of the bleakest babyfic in the world. Tip yours waiters, etcetera.

Weeks pass. It gets cooler, but barely. Ginny finds a house, a freshly flipped bungalow not too far from Mike’s with a big, light-filled living room and an avocado tree in the backyard. “Blip and Evelyn are gonna know something’s up the second they see this place,” she mutters, grimacing at him across the Spanish tile. “I made a lot of noise about wanting a concierge.”

Mike grimaces too. He wants to apologize, but he isn't sure how she’d take it. “You could still get a place with a concierge,” he says instead, fiddling with the kitchen taps.

“No,” Ginny says. “I can't.”

No. She can't.

She signs the mortgage. A week later Mike helps her cart three and a half garbage bags worth of stuff over from the Omni and assemble her new bed, dresser, and couch, which turns out to be the sum total of furniture she owns in the world. “We’ll have to buy a crib,” Ginny says absently, wiping her forehead. Mike’s heart lurches in his chest.

She’s right about Blip and Evelyn, as it turns out: they piece it together almost immediately. One Tuesday Mike's phone rings and there's Blip on the other end, demanding to know if what Ginny told Evelyn is true. “Go fuck yourself,” he says when Mike answers in the affirmative. The call-ended tone sounds a second later.

 _The Sanders_ _know?_  Mike texts Ginny. She texts back a succinct, _Yep._

Ginny's morning sickness gets worse, then better. Two days before Thanksgiving, her OBGYN congratulations her on a successful first trimester. “Should I tell my mom?” she asks Mike over the phone afterwards. He still doesn’t come to any of her appointments, even though everyone at the clinic has signed non-disclosure agreements. “Or maybe Will? Google says that the second trimester is when you're supposed to announces.”

Mike scrubs a hand through his beard. “I dunno, rook. It’s your call.”

Ginny makes a noncommittal noise. Mike pictures her in her bungalow with its three pieces of furniture, and for a second it feels like he can’t breathe.

Evelyn invites them both to Thanksgiving dinner, telling Mike and Blip in no uncertain terms to get over themselves. Mike brings a pumpkin pie from Whole Foods and an absurdly expensive bottle of wine, blatantly grovelling. Ginny brings a new Playstation game for the twins and sparkling cider. They take separate cars, and it bothers Mike more than it should. He feels awkward around Ginny with Blip and Evelyn watching, unsure of whether he should be behaving like a boyfriend or a pal. One of the things he liked best about being married to Rachel was going out together, fetching her a drink or helping her with her coat, the public performance of matrimonial duties. If he was going to psychoanalyze himself, he’d say it was because he liked belonging to someone.

“I've decided I’m gonna tell my mom,” Ginny whispers to him between dessert and dinner. She's dressed up tonight, her mouth bright and unfamiliar with Evelyn’s borrowed lipstick. It makes her look older. "Will you come with me?"

Mike blinks. “Sure,” he says. “Of course.”

They do it from her car, still parked outside in the Sanders’ driveway. Mike wants to hold her hand but she kicks him out after less than two minutes of halting conversation, turning her face away as he shuts the door. When she lets him back in, he can tell she’s been crying.

“Hey,” she says. “So, guess what. My mom wants you to come visit for Christmas.”

“Okay,” Mike says immediately, so fast that Ginny laughs at him. He’s shocked— _thrilled_ —she mentioned him at all. “If you want me to, that is.”

Ginny nods. “I do,” she says, then bites the side of her lip, glancing out the window and clenching her jaw like she does when she’s on the mound. “I mean, obviously you don’t have to or anything, I know it's weird, she just—”

Mike feels a rush of something sharp and nameless. “Baker,” he says, reaching out and squeezing her hand before he can talk himself out of it. “I want to.”

Ginny huffs out a breath. “Okay. It’s not gonna be fun, though, I’m warning you.” She leans her head back against the passenger seat, the long naked column of her throat vulnerable-looking in the streetlight. For a second they just sit together in silence. “Everybody’s so _mad_ at me,” she says finally, still staring up at the dome light. She sounds like a kid who got yelled at by the principal.

She celebrated her twenty-fourth birthday less than a month ago. Mike tries not to feel any type of way about that. “They’re not mad at you,” he reminds her, laying his hands flat on his thighs so he doesn’t touch her a second time. “They’re mad at me.”

Ginny smiles. “Well,” she says, tilting her head to the side like she’s considering. Tonight during dinner Blip offered everyone pie except him. “That’s the truth.”

 

The stretch between Thanksgiving and Christmas feels unusually long. Mike spends it googling pregnancy milestones and researching baby strollers, trying to figure out how to make his sterile man-cave childproof. He wonders if maybe he shouldn’t just move. One night in mid-December he gets drunk and pays an Uber fifty bucks to drive by his father’s place, then another hundred for confidentiality. The house is festooned in Christmas lights, plus one of those tacky blow-up snowmen Mike always thinks look extra-ridiculous in San Diego. He has the Uber loop the block twice.

The night before their flight to North Carolina, Ginny calls him to go over logistics then surprises him by staying on the phone for a while, shooting the shit like they used to before this whole mess started. “You can still bail,” she says. “We can both still bail, actually. Maybe we don’t have to tell anyone else until month five.”

“What, when you’re as big as the side of the house?” Mike asks. He has no idea if she’s showing now or not, actually. He’s seen her exactly twice since Thanksgiving. “That’s a great idea, Baker. _US Weekly_ can announce it for us.”

“At least it’s efficient.” Ginny’s quiet for a second. “My mom keeps asking about us, you know. Like. What the plan is.”

Mike’s heart takes a sharp, sudden swan dive. It's the closest they've come to talking about it since the night they shook hands in the Omni. He wants to tell her the plan is to put this kid before everything; that the _plan_ is he wants this so bad he might choke. “Like if she should put us both up in your twin bed underneath your poster of me?” he jokes instead, then immediately wishes he could grab the words right out of the air.

Ginny doesn't laugh. Mike closes his eyes, knocking the back of his skull against the headboard. “Baker,” he says quietly. “That's not—”

“No, no, I know,” she says, her voice bright and fake as an inflatable snowman on a lawn in Southern California. “You’re right, it's actually none of her business. I’ll see you at the airport tomorrow, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Mike says after a moment. “Of course.”

He means to apologize first thing when he sees her but she doesn't actually seem that upset with him, slouched by the gate in yet another pair of spandex leggings, happily munching her way through a package of trail mix. “I like Christmas,” she explains, holding out the bag like an offering. “I can’t help it. Even when I know it's probably going to be a shitshow.”

She passes out almost immediately after they board, dark head tilted against the window. Mike spends the flight listening to back episodes of Fangraphs and glancing furtively around first class to see if anyone’s recognized them. Ginny still doesn’t look pregnant, but with her giant Nike sweatshirt it’s hard to tell.

Tarboro is an hour away from the airport, so they rent a car and drive. The closer they get to the house, the more nervous Mike feels; Rachel’s parents always loved him, but Mike didn’t impregnate their twenty-four-year-old daughter after a one night stand.

“Okay,” Ginny says, once he's turned the car off in the driveway of a tidy-looking house in a cluster of other, equally tidy-looking houses. There's a Christmas tree visible through the wide front window and a wreath on the front door, tasteful and festive. “You ready?”

Mike nods. “Born ready,” he assures her, trying to sound more confident than he feels.

“Okay,” she repeats. Then, reaching over and squeezing his hand where it's still resting on the steering wheel: “I’m really glad you came.” She smiles at him quickly before scrambling out of the car.

Mike takes a deep breath, his whole body flushing, and follows her up the front walk.

It isn't terrible. Her mom’s boyfriend is there, plus Will, and if neither of them look exactly thrilled to see Mike at least nobody actively slaps him across the face to say hello. “Mama,” Ginny says, shoving him forward into the cozy living room. “You remember Mike Lawson.”

“I do,” Janet says, in a voice that clearly asks, _Is this why you offered us your All-Star tickets?_ Mike barely manages not to wince.

Strangely—or maybe not so strangely—no one mentions the pregnancy. Instead Janet puts them to work decorating the tree, Baker starting on the garland while Mike and Will lug five Rubbermaid bins worth of ornaments up from the basement, Mike’s knees protesting sharply. There must be over a hundred decorations, each one individually wrapped in tissue paper. Mike appoints himself the task of unwrapping them all, hunting for the ones with photographs and superimposing Ginny’s features onto their future child. He wants to unearth every picture in the entire house.

“Hey,” Baker says when she catches him examining a tiny felt wreath containing her school photo from what must be first or second grade. She’s missing most of her front teeth, all gummed grin and high, puffed pigtails. “Quit staring.”

“I can't help it,” Mike says before he can think better. Ginny raises her eyebrows.

“Kids,” Janet calls from the doorway, then catches sight of Mike and seems to rethink her word choice. “Come eat.”

Mike and Kevin do most of the talking at dinner, sticking to safe, boring topics like the car dealerships and if they ever get snow in Tarboro. Mike actually likes the guy a lot, though he knows better than to ever mention that to Ginny; he doesn’t even mind when Kevin asks about his own family, rattling off his standard, sunny lie and quickly changing the subject. “This is all delicious,” he tries, smiling at Janet, but she isn’t listening, peering at Ginny skeptically across the table.

“That all you’re eating?” she asks.

“I’m eating plenty,” Ginny says, sounding uncharacteristically sullen. For a second Mike can picture her at fifteen, planted with her arms crossed in this very same chair.

Janet raises her eyebrows. “Are you?”

“ _Yes_ , Mama.” Ginny huffs a bit. “I’m putting enough pressure on this elastic waistband as it is, thanks.”

It’s the first time anybody has said a word on the subject, even obliquely. Mike half-expects all the candles to go out on the table at once. “I’ll get the pie,” Will says, standing. Mike nearly knocks over his own chair getting up to help.

After dinner Ginny leads him down to the converted basement, which is home to a tiny couch and a TV and a shitload of exercise equipment. “My old workout room,” she explains, gesturing at the cabinet full of baseball trophies. “We don’t have a real spare, I’m sorry. It was either this or the living room.” 

Mike rubs through his beard, remembering his joke about sharing her childhood bed. “This is great.”

The couch pulls out. The two of them assemble it in silence, unfolding the mattress and yanking on the fitted sheet. “This gonna be okay for your back?” Ginny asks, handing him a pillow. “You can switch with me or Will, but we only have twins.”

“This is good, Baker,” Mike says quietly. He feels old and exhausted, suddenly, like he should be upstairs with the other grownups talking about the stock market, not down here with Ginny Baker and her little league trophies. The wreath with her school photo had a year on it that made him blink.

Ginny nods, chewing her bottom lip. “Are you gonna tell your mom?” she asks. “About this?”

She was listening, then, when he fed Kevin the lie about a strong single mother and a supportive childhood. Mike wonders how many profiles she’s read of him over the years. A couple have gotten close to the truth. “Maybe,” he hedges. He hasn’t spoken to his mom in ten years. “So hey, are you really starting to—” He breaks off, gesturing uselessly at her stomach.

Ginny watches him for a moment before apparently deciding to allow the subject change. “Yeah, a bit.” She lifts the hem of her hoodie slightly to demonstrate, revealing the smooth, gently rounded curve of her belly. “Mostly I just look like I ate a big burrito.”

“That’s not what it looks like,” Mike blurts, trying not to stare and completely unable to help himself. His entire body feels absurdly warm. “I mean—yeah. Baker. That’s not what it looks like.”

Ginny smiles at him, a little uncertainly. He thinks it’s possible she might be blushing, too. “Okay,” she says, in a voice like, _let’s not be weird about this._ “You wanna touch it? She’s not moving or anything yet, but like. Feel free.”

Mike raises his eyebrows, surprised. “She?” He didn’t think they were going to find out the sex for a few more weeks. 

Ginny shrugs. “I dunno. Feels messed up to keep saying ‘it’.” She’s still got her shirt lifted, the stark cut of her hipbones disappearing into the waistband of her leggings. Fuck, Mike really doesn’t want to be a pervert about this. “I guess I think she’s a she.”

“Okay,” Mike says distractedly. “Okay, yeah, can I—?” At her nod, he reaches out and lays his palm against the soft brown slope of her stomach. Her skin is very warm.

Ginny tightens her muscles under his hand, then immediately bursts out laughing. “Sorry, sorry,” she says, grinning. “Habit.”

Mike wants to tease her, but he can’t seem to form the words. “S’okay,” he says thickly.

She relaxes again, and her stomach grows under his palm. Mike wants desperately not to find it sexual but there's something about the hard drum of her skin, the unmistakable fact that he put a baby in there. He runs his palm down the firm curve, not realizing how low he’s dropped his hand until Ginny breathes in sharply.

“Sorry,” he says, yanking his palm away.

“No it's fine, it's your baby,” she tells him, but she’s let her hoodie drop back into place. “You can touch me wherever.” Her eyes fly to his face. “I mean—”

“I know what you mean,” Mike says roughly.

Ginny nods, still looking at him, fingertips worrying the corner of her mouth. She’s standing close enough that he can smell her shampoo. “Okay,” she says finally.

“Okay,” Mike echoes, swallowing. He knows, logically, that they need to talk about this. He owes it to her to man the fuck up and actually  _say_ something, explain that he doesn’t know what she needs from him and it’s getting harder to shove down his own feelings. But he's terrified that the teeth-clenching attraction he's experiencing isn't actually specific to her, that all of it is some kind of general boner he has for creating a nuclear family, pathetic and pathological. “Well,” he says, trying to keep his voice even. “Guess I’ll see you in the morning.”

Once she’s gone he lies down on the lumpy pull-out, balling up the pillow and shoving it under his head. He listens for a while for the house settling down, trying to pick out Ginny’s going-to-bed noises from everybody else’s. Trying to ignore the undeniable heaviness in his dick. He’ll be fucked if he’s going to rub one out in the basement of Ginny Baker’s mother’s house just because—because—

Christ, he’s a disaster.

He lies awake for a long time, staring at the ceiling. When he finally falls asleep he dreams strange, surreal dreams about the San Diego airport, planes taking off and arriving and a swirling, thronging crowd. He’s holding someone’s tiny hand, running through the terminal to catch their flight, but when he turns to look there's no one there.


	4. Chapter 4

In the morning Janet dispatches her children on various Christmas Eve errands, Will to the grocery store and Ginny to Target. Mike tags along, feeling clumsy and conspicuous next to Baker, like there’s a bright neon arrow pointing at him and a sign reading  _I knocked this girl up_. When the door greeter smiles at them, he almost turns around and walks the other way.

“No one's gonna recognize you here, old man,” Ginny tells him, rooting through a bin of pine scented candles. Now that Mike knows there's a bump he can spot it under her clothes, like that trick picture where you squint and see the old woman. “You can lose the shades.”

Mike bares his teeth. “Don't underestimate how far my fame extends, rookie.”

“Not a rookie anymore,” Ginny says absently, dropping a handful of jumbo candy canes into their cart. Then she frowns, and Mike can guess what she's thinking. They still haven’t talked about what they’re going to tell the front office, or what will happen when they finally do. Spring training starts in less than two months.

“Don’t,” Mike tells her quietly. “It’s Christmas.”

Ginny shrugs. “So what? Will already asked. Hell, my _mom_ asked, and she doesn’t give a shit about baseball.” Her frown deepens.

The guilt washes over Mike like a wave. It's been coming and going like the tide since yesterday, her baby pictures and her little league trophies and the terrifying half-certainty that he's ended her career before it really got started. He can barely even remember being twenty-four. “We’ll figure it out,” he says, which is exactly what he said to Rachel when she turned to him in a Best Buy parking lot at the tail end of their marriage and said she wasn’t happy. It’s just as useless now as it was then.

“We?” Ginny asks nastily, which: fair enough. 

“We,” he insists. He reaches up and puts both hands on her shoulders like they’re in the dugout, feeling her warm and alive inside her ridiculous puffy coat. Suddenly her believing him feels like the most important thing in the world. "I promise." 

Unexpectedly Ginny grins, her dimple popping. “Oh, so that’s what we’re doing now?” she says, wrinkling her nose. “You gonna threaten to walk on your contract or something? Stand up and tell the whole organization you’re my baby daddy?”

“I could,” Mike says, his ears warm. “I don’t mind.” 

“You don’t _mind?”_ Ginny asks, but she’s laughing. 

For the first time in a long time, Mike feels young. Young and ridiculous and off-kilter, like whiffing on a wild pitch. “I don’t,” he insists sincerely, ignoring the fact that people are looking at them, marooned in the middle of this busy aisle. “Come on, like it isn’t a childhood dream of yours.” 

“To get knocked up by Mike Lawson and have to explain it to Padres management? No, actually, it’s not.” She touches him then, curling both hands around his wrists and squeezing once. “But thanks for the offer.”

“You’re welcome.” He reaches up and tugs the end of her hair before he knows he’s going to do it, stretching out one long curl and watching it spring back into place. Almost immediately he’s embarrassed. “Sorry.”

“Uh-huh.” Ginny rolls her eyes, letting go and turning back to the cart. “Come on, old man. This list she gave me is a damn monster.” 

They take their time even though the store is a pre-Christmas zoo, wandering idly through housewares and and stopping for a soft pretzel at the food counter. Mike forgot how easy it is to be with her. He feels weirdly expansive all of a sudden, like he wants to fill their cart with all kinds of junk to put in her empty condo back in San Diego; like he wants to throw _her_ in the cart and zoom her down the aisle, just for the pleasure of hearing her laugh.

They're turning a corner toward cleaning supplies when all of a sudden the baby section is looming right in front of them, all bouncy chairs and nursing pillows and onesies printed with multicolored giraffes. On the endcap is a display of crib mobiles, hung with felted birds and crescent moons—and, Mike notes, feeling a slow grin spread across his face, baseballs. Both of them stop in their tracks.

Ginny shakes her head. “Uh-uh,” she says, hitting him gently in the side with the shopping cart. “We’re not doing that here.” 

“We gotta do it somewhere,” Mike points out, gesturing at her stomach. It makes him self-conscious and gives him a strange little thrill all at once, being so blatant. He isn't entirely sure it's his place.

Ginny hums, reaching for one of the hanging baseballs. “This is kind of obvious, though, right?” She tilts her head and Mike is struck dumb by how beautiful she is, her achingly young face and her dumb knit hat and the faint spray of acne along her hairline. He wants to touch her stomach again, right here in the Target in front of God and everyone.

“Her parents are both baseball players,” he points out. It’s almost irresistible, talking about it. He wants to say all the words suddenly, _pregnant_ and _baby_ and _mother_ and _father_.

“Yeah, and if we buy this, we’re both cheeseballs.” She flicks the foam baseball at him, grinning. “Okay. We can look at this shit for ten minutes, you hear me? Ten minutes.”

She sounds like her mother. Mike grins. “Ten minutes.”

It’s longer. Of course it’s longer. Mike expects them to goof around but instead they’re both strangely reverent, holding up tiny bibs and socks and swaddling blankets for each other to see in complete silence, passing items back and forth and reading labels intently. Inevitably, they start putting things in the cart. At the end they make themselves take everything out again, save for a tiny onesie neither of them can bear to put away. It isn’t even baseball themed, just a plain, sunshine yellow. The feet are so small Mike could cup both in his palm and have room to spare.

“Come on,” Ginny says finally, curling her hand around his bicep and squeezing twice through his jacket, quick and gentle. Mike feels it right in the base of his neck. “We should get home.”

Dinner’s marginally less awkward this go round, a rib roast and Bing Crosby on the stereo and Ginny in a noticeably better mood than last night, helping her mom toss the salad and joking around with Will about the matching Christmas pajamas they used to have. He thinks she even smiles at Kevin once or twice. When they’re done Mike volunteers to do the dishes, Ginny turning up beside him after a moment with a towel in her hand. “Thanks,” he says, his wet fingertips brushing her dry ones as he hands her a frying pan.

“Anytime,” she tells him, grinning down at the counter. Mike just catches sight of her dimple in the window above the sink.

Afterwards she trails him down to the basement and lolls across the pull-out regaling him with stories from little league, smiling and relaxed. She's wearing an old farm league thermal and leggings that don't even look like they're athletic, her hair loose and lovely. Mike keeps catching himself staring. He asks to see her yearbook photos for something to do and is surprised when she actually goes upstairs to fetch them, not even bothering to tease him. She had braces in grades nine through eleven.

“Looking good, Baker,” he tells her, even though in reality she looks more or less the same. Mike thinks of the difference between his own yearbook photos and now, and winces.

Ginny laughs, flipping him off and reaching for the remote. "Oh please, we both know I'm adorable."

For a second, Mike lets himself wonder whether _he’s_ responsible for her sudden good mood, and feels a rush of equal parts pride and alarm. Because what did he do, really? Browse affordable baby goods at Target? Buy a single shitty onesie?

When it’s past ten o’clock and Ginny’s still lying across his bed, he starts to have his suspicions.

“How you feeling, Baker?” he asks carefully, rubbing a hand through his beard. He’s stretched out next to her by now, sitting up against the pillows and ostensibly watching a Die Hard marathon. Ginny keeps rearranging herself on the mattress next to him, wiggling and fussing in a way that he's about sixty-five percent sure is designed to attract his attention. It's working: he's hyperaware of their relative positions, like a teenager who brought a girl home for the very first time. 

Ginny hums. “Fine,” she says. “Pregnant.”

Mike looks over. Lying on her back her stomach seems rounder than ever, jutting up from her hips like a tiny peninsula. It's just as stupidly arousing as last night.

Ginny catches him staring; her elegant eyebrows lift. “What?” she asks, gently mocking. Her little white socks say _Hanes_ across the toes.

Mike shakes his head. “Nothing,” he says, but he doesn't look away either.

She grins. “ _What?”_ she repeats, fingertips brushing the bottom hem of her thermal, and now the tease is blatant. “You wanna touch it again?”

“I—” Mike hesitates. Abruptly it feels like a bad idea, for a whole slew of reasons but most specifically the look on her face. He can feel the energy shifting between them, crackling like a snowstorm rolling in.

On the other hand: yeah, he does want to touch it again.

Mike clears his throat. “Come here,” he says roughly, reaching out for her. Ginny’s smile falls but she comes, scooting closer on the thin, creaky mattress and rucking her own shirt up just the slightest bit. Mike swallows and sets his hand on her lower belly.

“What does it feel like?” he asks, splaying his fingers as wide as he can. The firmness surprises him just as much as last time.

Ginny shrugs, watching him. “Strange. Mostly like I just shoved something under my shirt.” She shifts, and a second later Mike feels her stomach press up against his hand. He realizes with a jolt that she's arching her back.

“How's your nausea?” he asks, a little desperately. His hand is still mostly on top of her thermal, but the bottom heel of his palm has slipped onto her bare skin. She's excruciatingly warm. 

“Fine,” Ginny says, her dark eyes steady on his. She's tipped her chin down, watching him through her eyelashes, and all right, Mike can read a room.

“Baker,” he says. If he's honest with himself, he spent their whole season peripherally aware of the fact that she was, at _most_ , two drinks and some half-assed flirting away from falling into bed with him. Even before Amelia mentioned the poster, he knew what _I had your rookie card meant_. That night outside Boardners, he was real careful to make sure those last inches of lean came from her.

“Lawson,” Ginny mimics, widening her eyes at him. Then she _grins_ , covering her smile with her hand. She doesn't look afraid at all. 

“All right,” Mike says, and he's grinning too suddenly, relief exploding in his stomach like a popped balloon. She's already pregnant, for God’s sakes. The damage has been done. He slides his hand underneath her shirt with purpose, stopping just below her bra. “Come here.”

Ginny shakes her head, leaning back on her elbows. “Put in some work, Lawson.”

Mike laughs out loud, surprised and bested, something light and nameless making room for itself deep inside his chest. It’s happiness, he realizes suddenly. He's happy. “Oh, I’ll put the work in,” he promises, all confidence, then cups her stubborn chin in his free hand and ducks his head.


End file.
